


The Reality of Dreams

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: muse_talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes things don't turn out like you thought they would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reality of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five  
> Written for LJ's Muse_Talking Community (1st Person Justin Taylor)  
> Prompt: What Are Your Dreams?

Lindsay calls three days after I move to New York.

"So, how's it going?" she asks, a little breathlessly, and I can picture her crossing one arm at her waist, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. In the background, Gus chatters away.

I look around the six feet by four feet box that's serving as my bedroom in the dump that is my apartment. It's not that I need luxury -- that place back home in Pittsburgh where I briefly lived was a dive by any of the standards one may apply -- but room for more than a single lumpy mattress would be nice.

"Okay," I answer dubiously.

"Are you all settled in?"

I brought two suitcases full of clothes for my nonexistent closet and a gym bag filled with art supplies for my nonexistent studio space.

"Pretty much," I grit out. "How about you?"

"Oh, you know," she hedges. "We're staying with Mel's cousin while we house hunt. It's… busy."

"Crowded?" I guess.

Lindsay lowers her voice. "Four adults, five kids, two dogs, one cat, and a gerbil," she whispers. She lets out a nervous chuckle. "You have no idea."

I glance around my room. "No idea," I say.

"It must be so exciting for you," Lindsay says breathlessly, "living your dreams."

"Yeah," I tell her. "Exciting."

* * *

Michael calls four weeks after I move to New York.

"I still don't have the panels for the new issue," he says without preamble.

"Hi Michael. Oh, I'm fine," I answer primly. " How about you?"

Michael huffs out a laugh. "Sorry, Justin. I'm just busy. How are you?"

"Fine," I say.

"Great. Um. So--"

"I haven't finished the panels yet."

"Justin! We have a deadline! We--"

"I know, okay?" I raise my voice and notice the waiter looking over at me, a couple of the other patio patrons also giving me strange looks. I hunker a little over my cup of coffee.

"I'm working on them," I tell Michael.

And I am. The sketches are stuck in my portfolio bag, at my feet. I just stopped for a drink before heading to the park in an attempt to finish them, since I can't get anything accomplished in my shoebox of an apartment. I used to try, spreading out as much as I could on the little bistro table by the apartment's lone window, but by the third time a roach skittered across the papers and freaked me out, I just gave up. Now I sketch in the park.

I don't know what I'll do in a few months, when it gets too cold.

"Is everything okay?" Michael asks.

I sigh. "Everything's fine. I'm just busy, too," I say. "I'll mail them out by Friday."

* * *

Debbie calls seven weeks after I move to New York.

"SUNSHINE!"

I cringe and pull the cell phone quickly away from my ear.

"Hello? HELLO?"

I gingerly hold the phone back up to my ear. "Hi, Deb."

"Oh, sunshine," she gushes. "It's so good to hear your voice."

That makes me smile. "I miss you too, Deb."

She snorts. "You're probably so busy painting the town red that you never think of us at all!"

My part-time job at Starbucks keeps me in café mochas but barely covers my half of the rent. I've been to exactly one nightclub, and only because one of the regulars at the coffee shop put me on the guest list. I treated myself to a Becks, fucked some dark haired guy in the backroom, and was home by 1am.

"I'll never forget you, Debbie," I reassure her.

"Damn right," she says, "'cause we won't let ya!"

"So what's new at home?" I ask.

"Oh same old, same old," she says. "Carl sends his love."

"Thanks."

"Are you eatin'?"

I frown. "What -- right now?"

"Not right now," she cackles. "In general. You sound skinny."

I laugh. "Deb--"

"You do. You're not eating enough. A mother can tell."

"Deb--" I try again.

"That's it," she says. "I'm sending you a care package."

I'm down to half a box of Ritz crackers and some deli sandwich meat in the fridge, and payday is still five days away. And arguing with Debbie Novotny is always a lost cause, anyway.

"Thanks, Deb," I tell her.

* * *

My mom calls eight weeks after I move to New York.

"Hi darling."

I'm on my break and munching on a day-old pumpkin cream cheese muffin. I swallow hastily. "Hi mom."

"How are you doing, sweetie?"

"You know," I say. "Busy."

"That's good," Mom says. "Have you made any contacts? Any chance that I'll be heading up soon to see some of your work on display?"

I found out very shortly after arriving in the city that one good review by one mediocre New York art critic doesn't mean shit here. The big galleries won't see me. The little galleries turn me down, telling me that I need a more substantial body of work before they'll even consider adding me to a show. I can't get a more substantial body of work because I have no room to paint and nowhere to store the finished pieces if I did.

"Not yet," I say brightly. "But I have a few good leads. I'm working on it."

New York has made me an accomplished liar.

"That's wonderful, honey."

I squirm in my seat and change the subject. "How's Molly?"

Mom laughs. "Driving me crazy. I think puberty comes earlier these days than when I was a kid."

"And Tucker?" I ask. I screw up my face, thankful that she can't see my expression.

"He's fine," mom says warmly. "Thank you for asking."

"Good," I say.

I glance at the remainder of my pumpkin cream cheese muffin, and realize that I've lost my appetite. I toss it in the trash.

"Well, mom, I've gotta go and--"

"I had lunch with Brian the other day," she says softly.

Somehow this doesn't surprise me. Mom and Brian have gradually gone from being adversaries to reluctant associates to friends. It's weird, but cool.

"He misses you," Mom finishes.

Brian and I talk on the phone -- a lot -- and he's been to visit me once. We spent the entire weekend in his hotel room, an indulgence I won't soon forget. The bed was massive and could easily hold three people, though it only ever held the two of us. I didn't have to let the hot water in the shower run for five minutes to get a trickle of warmth. I brought my sketchbooks and spread out on the floor and drew Brian while he slept, just like I did when I was seventeen and first fell ridiculously in love with him.

"I know," I tell Mom. "I miss him too."

* * *

I call Brian when I have lived in New York City for thirteen weeks and four days.

"Hey," he answers. "I'll call you back. I've got a meeting in--"

"Here's the thing," I tell him. "I can't paint because I have nowhere to do it. I can't afford studio space and no, you are not lending or giving or otherwise procuring for me or providing me with the funds to acquire said studio space. My body of work isn't large enough or varied enough for even the most shittiest of the shit galleries to even consider me, anyway. I need time and I need experience. And if I have to make another double latte mocha with skim milk I'm going to lose it. And," I finish, "I haven't had a decent fuck in months."

There is a long pause, during which I can only hear a faint clicking on the line.

"Brian?"

"I know of a large country house that has sufficient space for an art studio," Brian finally says.

"Good lighting?" I ask.

"Excellent."

"Quiet?"

"You could hear a pin drop."

"I don't know," I say. "Does it come with a decent fuck?"

"Better than decent," Brian drawls.

I smile into the phone. "I'll take it."

"There's a flight leaving in two hours," Brian says, and I suddenly realize what was making that odd clicking noise on the line. It was typing. Brian, checking flights. Fuck, he knows me better than I know myself.

"I'll be at your place in four to help you pack," Brian continues.

I have nothing to pack, but I want to see him again so badly it hurts. "What about your meeting?"

Brian laughs. "Fuck it," he says. "You're coming home."


End file.
